"Don't think to deceive me by your false pretences. My late husband, I mean. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. Then the incredible happened. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. " "Curse on, and welcome," jeered Wild. 1. .
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